Two of them were enormous Lysterian twins who wore red, scaled armor and had tattoos of open eyes on their eyelids. They reminded Vera of Devan—the man who’d killed Rowan on their way into Balaria.
She pushed the memory of his death away.
The third was Almiran. She could tell from his long, dark hair that was festooned with silver rings. He wasn’t as tall as Bershad, but they shared similar features. The man wore charcoal gray armor, and had both his hands clasped around the top lip of his breastplate in a relaxed posture.
They were all armed with a wealth of knives and short swords. Ideal for close-quarters combat. Each also had a Balarian crossbow on his back.
“Vera?” the Almiran asked.
She nodded. Kept her distance and her balance.
“Your names.”
“I’m Gyle,” said the Almiran.
He thumbed to the Lysterian on his left.
“This one’s Rike.”
He thumbed to his right.
“That’s Wun.”
Vera nodded. Those were the names Osyrus had given her.
“You know what we’re after?” Vera asked.
“Shitload o’ dragon oil,” growled Rike in a thick Lysterian accent.
“Yes.” Vera unrolled a blueprint of the warehouse and placed it on the ground by the furnace. One hand moved to her dagger as she did it, ready to slash a throat if any of the men made a move. None did.
She’d already scouted the warehouse from the rooftop of the building across the street. It was a single building protected by a wall that was fifteen strides tall. There were ten sentries patrolling outside, but only one was up on the wall. The rest were spread out around the compound and mostly standing still, which made things simpler. She’d marked their locations.
The mercenaries all looked down at the blueprint with the familiar concentration of men who had raided plenty of fortified positions.
“We’ll approach from the eastern alley,” Vera said, pointing with her boot. “I’ll kill the one on the wall with my sling and then the three of you go over in the gap that creates.”
“Narrow alley,” said Wun. “Long shot. Sure you got the muscle for it?”
“Stow that dragonshit,” Gyle hissed. “She’s a fucking widow, you moron.”
Wun frowned, but said nothing.
“Rush the two men here and here,” Vera continued. “If either of the sentries along the north or south wall wander over, I’ll have an angle on them. When they’re down, I’ll meet you here. We’ll clear the perimeter, then split up. Gyle and I go in from the north door. Rike and Wun from the south. Push anyone inside toward the middle.”
“Simple enough,” Gyle said.
“The key is silence and speed. We need to kill at least half of them before they realize we’re attacking, otherwise—”
“All due respect for the fact you’re a coldhearted mistress of planning and murder, but this isn’t our first infiltration and annihilation of a fortified position.” Gyle smiled. “We’ll get it done nice and clean.”
Vera gave each of them a long look.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
* * *
Vera came up behind a sentry and slit his throat just as Rike was cutting another one’s head off. The two dead men fell to the ground in an eerie unison. You kill enough people, strange moments of synchronicity like that happen.
Vera surveyed the warehouse grounds. Ten corpses were spread out across the compound. Three had crossbow bolts in their faces. One had his head caved in from Vera’s sling. The other six had open throats or missing heads.
All of them had died surprised.
Gyle walked over to Vera. Gave a nod. Rike and Wun reloaded their crossbows, then headed for the south door to the warehouse without a word.
Vera let Gyle walk ahead of her on the way to the north entrance. She wanted to keep the Almiran mercenary where she could see him. Gyle had a sword in his right hand and tested the door with his left. He gave Vera a happy nod when it came back unlocked.
They rushed inside. The room was illuminated by half a dozen dragon-oil lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The perimeter was dominated by bundles of cotton stacked on high shelves, but as soon as they slipped past the first row, the space opened up. There was a high stack of metal barrels in the middle. Twenty or thirty, at least. A plump merchant in a blue silk robe was standing in front of them, consulting a ledger. Clyde Farus.
He was flanked by another ten armed sentries.
“Black skies,” Vera hissed to herself, already starting to swing her sling.
Rike and Wun came into view on the far side of the warehouse just as Vera reached enough momentum with the sling to release. They raised their crossbows and fired just as Vera released her shot. Call it luck, or call it killers’ instinct, but all of them found a different target—Vera hit the sentry closest to Clyde. His brain matter splashed all over the merchant’s face. Farus dropped to the ground with a panicked squeal.
Vera drew Bershad’s sword from her back and rushed forward. Gyle did the same.
The remaining sentries reacted fast—drawing swords, angling up. Vera headed for a tall man in full plate armor and a round shield. He saw her coming and coiled into a defensive posture. Vera sprinted forward and feigned a high attack, causing the armored man to raise his shield. When he did that, Vera dropped to the ground and allowed her momentum to carry her beneath the lip of the man’s shield and between his legs. She sprang up behind him—drawing Owaru at the same time with her off hand—and buried the blade into the back of the man’s neck.
She heard a snarl to her left and brought her sword up on instinct—parried a vicious swipe that would have cut her in half at the waist. The shock of impact shot up both her arms and made her teeth hurt. The man beat at her again and again with a two-handed broadsword. He was strong, but his footwork was sloppy. Vera allowed the man to push her backward and think he was winning.
She waited until he was lurching forward, then kicked his rising boot, sending him into a stumbling fall and faceplant. Vera put all her momentum into the downward stab through his back-plate and into his heart.
She left the sword. Drew Kaisha. Looked around. But everyone was dead except for Clyde, who was still crouched down on his knees, covering his face and trembling. He’d pissed himself.
Vera stepped closer—figuring he might have some useful information—but Rike stalked over and cut him in half at the waist, then hacked off the back of his skull for good measure, as if it might have been possible for the merchant to survive being divided.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded.
Rike looked up, frowning. A worm of gray brain matter was sliding down the edge of his blade. “Orders.”
Vera glanced at Gyle, who just shrugged. “We were told to secure the oil and kill everyone.” He motioned to the tower of barrels. “Job well done, seems like.”
“Those were not the orders I gave.”
“No,” came a new voice. “But I did.”
Vera turned to find Osyrus Ward in the room. She frowned. How had he snuck up behind her?
“I wasn’t finished with him.”
Osyrus ignored her, looking up at the barrels of dragon oil with greedy eyes. “Yes. Yes, this will serve our purposes well.”
“So these are Malakar’s men, huh?” Gyle asked, surveying the corpses.
“Correct.”
“Good. Commander Vergun’s always looking to screw with their operation.”
Vera’s blood went cold.
“What did you just say?” she hissed.
“Oh, just that the Malakars are competition. The three families have a truce of sorts, but this’ll give ’em a nice big black eye to suffer without anything coming back on us directly.”
“No. Your commander. Who is he?”
“The vampire. Sorry, Commander—”
“That’ll be all, Gyle,” Osyrus cut in, voice firm. “Please wait outside.”
Gyle appraised th
e spindly man. “Aye. Sure. Whatever.”
He motioned to Rike and Wun. The three of them filed out. Rike hadn’t wiped his sword off, so he left a trail of blood and brain as he made his exit.
“You hired Vallen Vergun’s men for this?” Vera hissed when they were alone.
“Is that a problem?”
“That pale asshole killed—” She stopped herself when she saw Osyrus’s curious expression. Eyes wide and ready to absorb whatever she had to say. There was no value in telling him what had happened, or revealing how she felt about it. Any information she offered could be used against her in the future. So Vera swallowed her rage. “He is dangerous.”
“He is also hundreds of leagues away in Taggarstan. Meanwhile, we are here with more than enough dragon oil to power Kira’s ship once it is complete.”
“When will that be?”
“The construction of the hull is ahead of schedule.”
“And the engine?” Vera asked.
“Oh, progress is consistent and promising.”
“Define promising.”
Osyrus studied the crates. “If the finished product adheres to my projections, the Kor engine will only require five or six of these barrels to keep Kira’s ship in the sky for months. We have stumbled into quite a surplus.”
There was a noise outside. The clank of the warehouse gate opening. Vera raised her daggers on instinct.
“Not to worry, Vera the widow. I had porters waiting nearby. They will arrange a clandestine transport of the oil to the skyship bay where I am building Kira’s ship.”
“If you had men to transport it, why did you need me?”
“Clandestine transportation and clandestine murder are two vastly different skill sets, wouldn’t you say?”
Vera glared at him. “Do you require my skill set for anything else tonight?”
“No. You may return to the palace and give Kira the happy news, if you’d like.”
15
BERSHAD
Ghost Moth Island, Southern Coast
The bear meat smelled like sweet clovers as it cooked over the fire.
“I want to see your tattoos,” said the Lysterian, who’d lost a chunk of shoulder in the bear attack. The dark-haired man was stitching the wound for him. He wasn’t doing clean work, but the Lysterian had been drinking heavily from a gallon jug of surprisingly expensive-smelling rum, and didn’t seem to feel any pain from his wound. “Reveal your arm and I’ll accept that you’re truly the Flawless Bershad.”
“Quiet about the fucking tattoo,” muttered the dark-haired man. “And stay still.”
They were the first words he’d spoken.
“You’re Almiran,” Bershad said.
And from the Dainwood, judging from his accent.
“Used to be.”
“Way things go, pretty much everyone on Ghost Moth is from somewhere else,” the Lysterian said.
“Not me!” the boy piped. “I’m a trueborn son of Naga Rock and the best tracker on the island.”
He beamed with pride.
“Don’t boast,” said the Almiran. “It’s not our way.”
Definitely from the Dainwood.
“Sorry, Dad.” The boy hung his head a little.
Bershad studied the men. Given the calm, practiced way they were dealing with the Lysterian’s injury, they were clearly warriors—used to injuries and the bloody cleanup that followed. But they didn’t seem like murderous cannibals. Either the stories about Ghost Moth Island’s pirates were grossly exaggerated, or this was a different bunch.
“What are your names?” Bershad said. He’d introduced Ashlyn and Felgor, but they’d fixated on his identity and the introductions had stopped there.
There was a pause. The dark-haired man didn’t seem eager to answer Bershad, and the kid followed his father’s lead of silence.
“I’m Goll,” said the Lysterian, softening first. He jerked his chin to the dark-haired man. “That sour bastard is Vash. And the kid’s Wendell.”
Goll took another big swig of rum with his uninjured arm.
“Good to meet you,” Bershad said.
“Right, right. So that’s us. Short names with no titles or dynastic surnames attached. But you are allegedly the Flawless Fucking Bershad, shipwrecked on our island with Ashlyn Malgrave, the queen of Almira, and a Balarian. Sounds like the start of some stupid southerner joke.” Goll burped. “I believe none of this without proof. Do you know how many blue-barred assholes claim to be the Flawless Bershad if they’re tall enough to pull it off?”
Felgor cracked a smile. “Man has a point.”
“Ha! Your Balarian agrees with me. Reveal your arm.”
Bershad sighed. “Fine.”
He took off his gauntlet and unstrapped enough of his armor so that he could roll up his sleeve and show them the sixty-six tattoos running up his forearm and biceps.
Goll blinked. “Fuck me. It’s really you.”
“Of course it’s him,” Wendell said. “He cut that bear’s head off with a single chop. A flawless chop.”
“The fall did most of the work,” Bershad said.
“Do not undercut your accomplishment,” Goll said. “I have great respect for you, Flawless. Me and Vash only have four tattoos between us. And he is carrying the majority of the ink.”
Goll lifted his sleeve, revealing a single lizard tattooed just above his glyph. Looked like a Lysterian Round Belly. They were a small but vicious breed. Killing one couldn’t have been easy.
Bershad turned to Vash. “Three, huh?”
“You aren’t the only one who can kill a lizard,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.
“They were all Blackjacks,” his son added to the awkward silence. “One was fully grown.”
Wendell glanced at his father. The look on Vash’s face halted the story in its tracks.
Goll offered his jug of liquor to Bershad. “Never mind the lizards we’ve killed, I owe you a blood debt for beheading that bear. One that I will repay in turn. For now, it would be my honor to share my personal rum stores with the Flawless Bershad.”
“I’m all right.”
“You sure? It’s decent stuff.” He wiggled the jug a little, but when Bershad shook his head again, he pulled it back under his arm. “Suit yourself.”
The fire crackled.
“I’m pretty thirsty,” Felgor said, inching a little closer to Goll.
“Flawless saved my life. You did nothing, little Balarian.”
“I did nothing today. But I’ve personally saved Silas’s life on three occasions.”
“Is this true?” Goll asked, raising his eyebrows and looking at Bershad.
“Yeah, actually.”
“See! The Law of Indirect Proxy says that since I saved his life, and he saved your life, I’ve saved your life, and thus deserve some of the rum.”
“I have not heard of this law before,” Goll said, frowning at Felgor. “The proxy does not include the blood debt, correct? Owing even one of these is a significant burden.”
“Hmm. In this particular case, I’ll consider my portion of the heroics settled with rum alone.”
“I accept your terms,” Goll said, nodding gravely, then passing the jug.
Felgor drank enough for Goll’s eyes to darken. Smacked his lips when he was done. “Decent stuff? By Aeternita, this is top shelf! What’s a salt outlaw doing with such a good vintage out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Goll shrugged. “That is average at best. Back in Naga Rock I have a sixty-year-old, oak-aged brandy that warms a man’s very soul. We confiscated it from a Pargossian senator last spring.”
Ashlyn cleared her throat. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Naga Rock. Is that your camp?”
“Camp? A camp does not begin to properly describe the Rock. It’s a whole city burrowed deep in the limestone cliffs. Got about a thousand citizens, more or less.”
“You couldn’t count to a thousand if you had a week to do it,” Vash said.
; “Doesn’t change the figure. You know how Kerrigan is with her logs.”
“Is everyone in Naga Rock an exile?” Bershad asked.
Running into another dragonslayer anywhere in the world was uncommon, given their short lifespans. But finding two in the wilderness of the most remote island in Terra couldn’t just be a coincidence.
“Not everyone,” Goll said. Paused. His brow furrowed in thought. “’Bout half I’d say. Rest are hired craftsmen, traders, and entertainers. Or people who just got sick o’ the laws that come with living in Terra.”
“Five hundred dragonslayers in a subterranean city on an island in the middle of the Big Empty. How’d that happen?”
“Oh, Kerrigan made plucking unfortunate exiles out of their plight a special project of hers way back. She rescued the first few scores herself, then put up a permanent reward with no expiration date or limit for anyone who brought another blue-barred face to Naga Rock. Five hundred gold, even if they don’t pass the interview. Whole thing snowballed from there.” He motioned to Vash. “That grumpy bastard’s the one who found me trudging around in Treindhorn harbor with a writ for a Silver Scale in my pocket. Mean fuckers, those. I did not take much convincing to piss on the writ and relocate.”
“What’s the interview they have to pass?” Bershad asked.
“Some people deserve the bars on their cheeks,” Goll explained. “So, Kerrigan interviews each exile that’s brought to Naga Rock. Decides for herself who gets to stay. She reads their glyph, looks into their souls, and clears out the rapers and the murderers and the other particularly unsavory types. You pass muster with her, you’re invited to join Naga Rock as a citizen.”
“And if you don’t?”
Goll shifted. “Let’s just say you get a different set of choices.”
He coughed. Looked uncomfortable.
“But she’s typically real lenient,” he continued. “Says it’s more about character than specific actions performed in the past. Take Cormo, for example. He was a field surgeon in the Balarian army who got himself exiled for drunkenly amputating the wrong leg o’ some general. I mean, that’s a big fuckup, seeing as the poor bastard still had to lose the bad leg, but in Kerrigan’s eyes it don’t quite warrant getting yourself turned into dragonshit. He’s been the Naga Rock surgeon for four years.”
Sorcery of a Queen Page 18